


Thorns and Rubies

by user86 (hentaetae)



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Politics, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hentaetae/pseuds/user86
Summary: Set roughly two years after the events of Inheritance and in the midst of The Fork, The Witch and The Worm. Not a day passes by that Murtagh doesn’t think of Nasuada and she him, but fate continues to separate them. Or: Nasuada and Murtagh make their way back to each other slowly but surely. Also lots of political intrigue.Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle universe.
Relationships: Murtagh Morzansson & Thorn (Inheritance Cycle), Murtagh Morzansson/Nasuada
Comments: 16
Kudos: 22





	1. Prologue: Tronjheim, Four Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: While I agreed with CP’s decision to not end on a Murtagh/Nasuada and Eragon/Arya happily ever after, and sincerely hope he will give them what they’re due in Book 5 and beyond, this is my attempt.
> 
> 21/02/21 UPDATE: I have not abandoned this fic, Chapter 5 under dev ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their fated first meeting in Tronjheim so many years ago.

Nasuada waited patiently while the stocky dwarf unlocked the deadbolt on the gray door. Her father had once again expertly outmaneuvered the Council and the Twins. After assuring her handmaid, Farica, that she would only be introducing herself to the Dragon Rider, Eragon, and thus did not require any assistance, Nasuada had made her way down to the cells. Most of them were empty, save for a few with humans who murmured “My Lady,” as she walked past. The dwarf bowed slightly as he stepped aside and Nasuada inclined her head in acknowledgement before gathering her skirts and crossing the threshold.

The prisoner lounged on a large cot covered in animal furs. A wash basin and writing desk sat in opposite corners; Nasuada recognized the desk as one that used to sit in the study of one of father’s advisors. His dark hair framed a serious face currently devouring—Nasuada dipped a little to the left to see— _Namna: The Art of Urgal Hearth-Weaving_. She bit her lip to avoid breaking into a smile; the title was not what she expected a man, or any human, for that matter, ever being interested in.

“Page turner?” she inquired, her steps silenced by the plush carpet as she moved forward.

Startled, she watched him reach for a sword that wasn’t there before he took her in and his eyes widened. He scrambled to right himself and ran a quick hand through his hair, much to her amusement.

“Who are you?” he asked in awe.

She curtsied like she had been taught. “My name is Nasuada.”

Jumping to his feet, he extended a hand. After an awkward pause, Nasuada placed her hand in his. His palm was calloused but not rough and his steely gray eyes captured hers as he placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles.

“I’m not a noblewoman,” she felt compelled to say. She considered herself mostly impervious to the attentions of men, having spent the majority of her life engaged in the politics of the Varden, but the heat of his stare made her stomach curl.

He seemed surprised, but did not comment. Instead, he straightened his tunic and gestured towards the desk chair. “Would you like to sit?”

As she lowered herself into her seat, Nasuada considered the man before her. He was strikingly handsome and had obviously been raised amongst nobility, though he held himself with the wariness of a soldier. Her interest in meeting the son of Morzan was a mixture of wanting to see for herself if the apple fell far from the tree and relief that there was finally someone of her station who could understand her position. They were both the children of powerful men whose actions had shaped their offspring’s lives, and it was rare Nasuada found the opportunity to witness how another carried a similar burden. A part of her knew it was foolish to think the son of Morzan—a traitor and murderer—could understand her, yet she couldn’t help but hope.

Still, she made sure to keep any such expression of interest off her face when she began speaking, a skill which had been schooled into her by her father from a very young age. “I came to visit because I wished to see the man who had made such an impression on my father in such a short time. What is your name?”

He sat back on the bed, laying the book beside him. “I find it hard to believe I managed to make such an impression and yet you do not know my name.” The warm light cast the shadows of the lacquered figures carved into the ceiling upon his boyish grin, giving it a sinister, animalistic quality.

Her lips twisted up; he was smart. “Are our accommodations to your liking, Murtagh?”

“Of course! Forgive me, but I expected, well, not this.”

Nasuada shifted slightly, adjusting the bejeweled dagger strapped to her waist, now digging uncomfortably into her side. She caught the appraising look her gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking and suddenly wished the elegant neckline of her velvet dress, one of her favourites, was a little higher cut. Refusing to be bothered by his action, she shot him her most disarming smile. He may be tall, fit, well-spoken and well-dressed, but she was no stranger to her beauty, nor against using it to her advantage. “Your travels with Eragon are the talk of Tronjheim,” she said, “I must admit, I am curious myself why the son of Morzan would ally himself with enemies of the Empire.”

His expression soured and she saw that he had held out hope that she was unaware of his lineage. “I answer neither to Galbatorix nor to the Varden. I did not ask to be born where or to whom I was, but I refuse to be used as a pawn by either side. You, of all people, should understand that, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad.”

Allowing a small glint of approval to colour her gaze, she leaned forward in her seat. “That I do. And what is it you want to do?”

Murtagh opened the book and absentmindedly flipped through the pages while he thought. “I’m not sure yet, my Lady. It has been a long time since I was able to ask that of myself,” he answered honestly.

“See that you decide soon. Others will start to exert their will if you display no desire to exert yours.” Satisfied that she had needled him out of inertness, she moved on to more pleasant matters. Raising an eyebrow, she gestured at the book, “Are you an artist?”

He let out a bark of laughter. “Hardly. Your father allows me to borrow books from Tronjheim’s library and I was interested in seeing the scope of the collection. The library in Urû’baen has depth, but not as much breadth.” Book in hand, he walked to where she sat at the desk, leaning over her to grasp an armful of other titles. For a second, the unique scent of underground water and an unidentifiable musk which gave her goosebumps filled her nostrils, then he moved back a respectable distance and it was gone.

Balancing the books precariously in his arms, he shuffled through them. _The Trial of the Long Knives and Other Customs of the Wandering Tribes, A Guide to Feldunost Rearing,_ _Swordplay Amongst the Races_ and _Elven Love Poems Volume IV_ flashed by before he exclaimed, “Ah! Here it is!”

Nasuada stared at the book he held out: _Dressing Nobility in the Former Broddring Empire_. She was not even aware the library contained books on topic such as these. Whenever Nasuada ventured there, searching sometimes for a quiet reprieve, she mostly studied titles on politics and war strategies. It was her way of helping her father and preparing for the unpredictability of life. Their fingers brushed as she took the book from him and a chill ran down her spine.

“That style of dress was once very popular amongst the ladies of the court of Queen Arianne,” he explained, and his eyes once more drifted over her form, lingering on her waist and neck.

She had no idea who Queen Arianne was, but his comment unsettled her. She gently returned the book to the desk and got to her feet. “Men of such wide interests are few and far between,” she remarked, “Your sweetheart must be delighted.”

At this, he smirked and Nasuada’s heart thumped unevenly. He had a kind of rugged charm that highlighted all the thrilling differences between men and women, but she was shocked by the strength of the effect he had on her. He sauntered towards her, stopping just short of outright impropriety—and Nasuada abruptly remembered that the door was closed—but close enough that she had to lift her chin to look him in the eyes. “I have no sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and meaningful.

Ignoring the giddiness that coursed through her at his words, Nasuada curtsied again. “My apologies. I did not mean to pry.” Not wanting to leave but finding it harder to diffuse the tension between them, she searched for an acceptable topic.

Murtagh beat her to it. “What about you, Nasuada? What do you want to do? You do not seem the type of woman content with just keeping house and raising children.” At her narrowing eyes, he caught himself, “My apologies, that was quite presumptuous of me.”

Presumptuous though it was, his keen observations were once again spot on. She fingered a pleat in her dress before responding in a level tone. “As you say, I am my father’s daughter. To say I would like to take his place one day would be arrogant, but I’m not child enough to assume it would never be required of me.” Ajihad had planned for the possibility with her, of course, but Nasuada had never spoken of it to another soul. Until now.

“Ah, legacies are hard to ignore.”

“Legacy?” Despite herself, she felt her temper rising. “Overthrowing Galbatorix is not a legacy, it is a duty.”

Sighing, he returned to his position on the bed. “I meant no offense. In a position like yours, it is hard to distinguish between your needs and the needs of your—“

“Stop,” Nasuada advised, “You do not know that which of you speak.” Her fists were clenched at her sides.

He tilted his head, “Perhaps.” Then silence stretched between them until he said, “What do you want with me, Nasuada?”

Bothered by his criticism of her, she didn’t hide the bite of her words. “I came to see if you were like your father. My father spoke of his cruelty often.”

He stiffened, but she admired that he was still willing to ask: “And? Am I like him?”

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I do not know. I never met him.” Before she injured his pride irreparably, however, she added, “Lineage makes not a man, actions do. And your actions are not those of your father.”

Instead of the gratitude she was expecting, he laughed again, and a genuine smile graced his lips. “You remind me of someone. That sounds exactly like something he would say.” A softness entered his eyes when he placed them upon her then, and her heartbeat quickened.

Suddenly afraid that he could see into her soul, she mumbled, “I must go. I still have to greet Eragon.”

Nodding in understanding, he stood up, and Nasuada wondered at the oddness of him walking her to his cell door. She banged on it with her fist.

“Will you come again?” Murtagh made no attempt to hide the hopefulness in his voice and the weight of his loneliness seemed too heavy for her to dismiss.

“Next time,” she glanced at him over her shoulder as the dwarf swung open the door, “maybe you can teach me how to weave a hearth.”

Chuckling, he leaned against the wall until she was out of sight, then avoided the dwarf’s accusatory gaze while he trudged back to his bed.

*******

The witch’s eyes trailed Ajihad’s daughter exiting the dungeon. She was tempted to read her fate with the dragon bones, but stopped herself. She didn’t think she needed them anyway. Murtagh and Nasuada’s conversation had carried in the damp underground and in their voices she heard the first exploration of tender feelings. Alas, she knew it could not be. For while their situation appeared complicated at the moment, if the tingle in her veins was telling her anything, it was about to get much, much worse.


	2. Dreams of Blood and Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorn and Murtagh have just escaped Ceunon, heading along the Ninor River towards Teirm to investigate certain *rumours*.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As suave as Murtagh seems, I think he's just a shy boi :P

Thorn turned his head lazily to glance upon his Rider, slumped forward in his saddle, a line of drool visible on his chin, napping without a care in the world.

The effortless rhythm of his wings was aided by the cool-above-water breeze and the sun shining brightly down upon them. Even from this height, he could see the glitter of his scales creating a ruby-red shadow over the liquid expanse, sure to be blinding to any ship. The clear blue of the sky and murky blue of the lake they flew over, along with the green of the forests visible to their right and left, made Thorn all the more proud of his colour. Many things were blue and green in the natural world, but very few were red.

And red was of course an incomplete encompassment of his scales. They were crimson, burgundy, maroon, scarlet, garnet, cinnabar, carmine, chili and bloodred, though the words in the humans’ tongue were also incapable of describing them fully. Thorn did not consider himself as vain as blue-scales-gleaming-claws Saphira Bjartskular, but for most of his short life, his colour had instilled fear in the hearts of many, and he considered this, his redefinition of himself, as a way of moving past that.

Indeed, without redefinition, they may never have escaped Galbatorix’s clutches. Once more Thorn looked back at Murtagh, and, satisfied that he was unlikely to fall out of the saddle anytime soon, despite his precarious position, reached out with a gentle tendril of thought. Though they were always connected, Thorn often withdrew when partner-of-his-heart-and-mind-Murtagh slept; his sleep was almost always fitful, and he was loathe to accidentally disturb him with an errant wisp of his own dreams. For while Thorn had dreamt all manner of dreams in the past three years since he had hatched, Murtagh’s dreams still managed to give him pause. He understood that his Rider had not had an easy life—still did not have an easy life—but he clung to the knowledge that at least they were together now. At least they were finally free.

His earliest memory was of Murtagh crying, though at the time he hadn’t known what the strange creature gazing down at him was doing, as he stepped out of the shards of his shell. Tears flowed freely down Murtagh’s cheeks and he had pulled Thorn close to his chest, letting out aching cries that had frightened him back then, small as he was. The strength of his emotion had made Thorn’s eyes itch and water and he remembered clawing weakly at Murtagh’s jerkin. Still, listening to the thudding of Murtagh’s heart had calmed Thorn enough to hear his hoarse whisper. “You have given me reason to live,” he had said, and at the touch of Murtagh’s lips on his snout, their connection had strengthened and the glowing gedwëy ignasia had appeared on his palm.

He tapped Murtagh with his mind, as softly as he liked to imagine his sire had caressed him when he was tossing and turning in his egg. Murtagh grumbled and his cheek scraped against the leather of the saddle as he turned his head to the left. A snort of amusement escaped Thorn and then he blinked twice in surprise when he realized what Murtagh was dreaming about.

Despite all Murtagh had taught him of courtesy and the inappropriateness of listening in on someone’s thoughts—invading their privacy, as he’d called it—Thorn was intrigued. Though he had tried to hide his comings and goings from the Hall of the Soothsayer so that Galbatorix could never glean the information from Thorn, his change in mood was always so drastic that Thorn couldn’t help but know. Until he had seen the gleam of starry-night-daughter-of-Ajihad-Nasuada’s skin himself, he had been jealous and unable to comprehend the depth of Murtagh’s affection for her. He sensed it was different than Murtagh’s feelings for himself, or Tornac, or his mother. It had troubled him when he first learned of it and still it troubled him now, though he had borne Nasuada on his back and even spoken to her.

The landscape of his Rider’s memory-dream resembled the Hall of the Soothsayer. The same hard slab of granite sat in the far end of the room, while Murtagh and Nasuada sat side by side on the floor opposite the cot. Nasuada tugged at her shift, and Thorn recalled his lessons on nobility to conclude that it was quite the scandalous thing to be wearing alone with a man. He snorted again; he cared not for the useless proprieties of humans, besides, Nasuada had been stripped of her clothing to damage her sense of control, much as Thorn had been stripped of the sanctity of his mind under Galbatorix’s control as a way of subduing his spirit. He respected her courage in not giving in.

Their lips moved, but Thorn could not hear what was said, yet he knew something of import passed between them before Murtagh’s hand slid up her scarred arm to rest around her shoulders. A shuddering cry broke the silence of the dream as Nasuada tucked her head into Murtagh’s chest and sobbed. Murtagh’s own eyes were wet as he placed a kiss upon her curls.

“Will you really save me?” Her murmur was lost amidst the folds of his clothing. Murtagh reached down and pulled her chin up until he could look her completely in the eyes.

“That, or I’ll die trying,” he said, and Thorn knew he meant it.

She continued to stare at him, searching for something in his face. Thorn felt Murtagh’s emotions shift, from sorrow and tenderness to something deeper and more forceful. It seemed to him like the difference between breathing smoke and breathing fire.

With a shaking hand, Nasuada placed her palm on his cheek and Murtagh inhaled sharply. She moved her face closer and Murtagh’s eyes darted up, down, left, right, anywhere but at the woman in front of him. His nervousness, mingled with both their sweat, gave the stale cell air a tangy smell. When they were but nose to nose, Nasuada tucked a lock of his shaggy hair behind his ear and Murtagh’s heartbeat doubled, the same as when they fought in battle, and this confused Thorn. Somehow, this gesture had been more intimate to Murtagh than what Thorn was sure they were about to do.

Nasuada moved to rest on her knees, at the same time pressing her lips to Murtagh’s. Thorn felt him stop breathing, then a moan escaped and he kissed her back with all his might. They clung to each other, his fingers in her hair, hers on his chest. Light from some unknown space above revealed the gold specks in Nasuada’s brown eyes before she closed them and the only coherent thought Murtagh seemed capable of producing was _She’s beautiful_.

Thorn found humans’ expression of passion slightly pitiful and disgusting, but he supposed that the partner-of-his-heart-and-mind would find his mating rituals the same. Not that he knew any mating rituals. When he hadn’t been fighting Saphira tooth and nail, Thorn had wondered, of course, especially since for a time she and he had been the last female and male dragons in existence. However, his conversation with her had made him aware of the complexity of the matter. He did not feel for Saphira even an inkling of what Murtagh obviously still felt for Nasuada, nearly a year and half after they had left Urû'baen.

Though he had brought it up many times now, Murtagh refused to consider returning to the capital, venturing forth to Ellesméra or even sending a message to half-brother-Eragon. He seemed content flying around for the foreseeable future, chasing errant rumours. The latest was of a witch whose power could not be reined in even with the Word: the true name of the ancient language. He had just escaped a badly handled scrapple in Ceunon over a black stone, now safely stored in their saddle bags.

Thorn knew they both needed to heal on their own terms, and yet he had agreed when Eragon had suggested healing among those that cared for them. Mostly he worried about all that he did not know and had yet to learn. That twisted-broken-Shruikan had been the only one to teach him about the ways of his kind disturbed him greatly.

_You think too much like a human_ , Saphira had told him when he’d shared his worries with her. _Trust your Rider and your instinct. You will know when the time is right._

The two humans had moved to the cot now, their breathing loud in the otherwise silent and unmoving room. Nasuada lay on its surface, much like when she had been bound, and Murtagh’s displeasure at the similarity of the position leaked across their bond. He shed his shirt, and his scar, ridged and ugly from right shoulder to left hip, shone under the meager light. Nasuada’s eyes drifted from his collarbone to his navel, but her expression remained unchanged, and Thorn felt Murtagh’s disappointment and insecurity as if it were his own.

“Turn around,” she whispered.

He seemed shocked at her request. Thorn knew Murtagh hated his unsightly gash, but he had not smoothed it over with magic. No, he had let it be. Slowly, he swiveled, shoulders hunched, until he could feel Nasuada’s eyes boring into his back.

“Stand tall,” she ordered, and Murtagh’s spine snapped straight. Leading the Varden had given Nasuada’s voice command, and though she lay burnt and trembling upon the bed of her torture, she retained the iron of her tongue.

She slid off the slab with a warrior’s grace, tired and guarded. She traced Murtagh’s scar with her fingers and Thorn saw a shiver run down his spine. “You didn’t remove it.”

He couldn’t help it, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “No.”

Her eyes softened, and she ran her hands over it one more time before slipping them around his waist and settling her cheek against his right shoulder. Murtagh’s muscles tensed and relaxed in rapid succession, and he breathed deep through his nose. He gripped her hands tightly with his own, as if he were afraid she’d release him at any second, and then what would he be? _Anchor_ , _anchor_ , Murtagh thought.

Finally, he spun in her grip and backed her up against the side of the granite. For some reason, this amused the woman, and she let out a small laugh. Murtagh’s brain stuttered as it pondered the mysteries of her joy. She placed his awkward hands, currently gripping the slab so hard his knuckles were turning white, on her waist and pointed at the floor. “What’s wrong with the floor?”

Murtagh’s cheeks burned and his ears were bright red. “Guuh,” he croaked, then coughed to clear his throat and tried again, “That…wouldn’t be proper.”

Thorn laughed a deep rumbling laugh in his chest. _Yes, this one has the right idea. What is wrong with the floor?_ Then he swerved to avoid a flock of birds which had idiotically crossed his path. Normally he would’ve grunted them away, but the dream had proven more distracting than he’d anticipated.

Watching Murtagh fumble at impressing night-lake-Nasuada was both heartening and embarrassing for Thorn. He hoped to never look as ridiculous as his Rider as he sought to woo a female, else he’d never find a mate. He watched with grudging fascination as Murtagh hopped onto the slab, shifting to make room for Nasuada. Thorn expected him to offer her a hand, but when Murtagh’s remained motionless, clenched by his sides, he recognized the lack as a deference to Nasuada’s strength and control, leaving her free to initiate or refuse contact as she saw fit.

As it was, she insisted on stepping between his thighs to eliminate the space between them, join their hands and lift them to her lips. She kissed his knuckles, and Murtagh chuckled, a low, shy sound. Murtagh was no stranger to women and so his sudden coyness was in direct opposition with his character as Thorn knew it, but he didn’t think he would ever ask him about it. The feelings flowing freely from their bond in his vulnerable state and the intimacy of the dream-memory-embodiment created an ache in Thorn’s belly he did not understand.

_He risked much to be by her side_ , he noted.

Finally, Nasuada climbed onto the slab, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Murtagh. She nestled her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder, exactly where Murtagh himself sat right now—Thorn understood it to be quite the comfortable place—and let out a sigh of such want, the blood rush to Murtagh’s lower body sounded like thunder in the dreamspace. Thorn felt a shudder pass through him as his blood sang.

Lust was also red.

He felt Murtagh fighting the base urges of his blood. Finally, he let his hand rest on Nasuada’s thigh, a motion which she mirrored on his. “Not here,” she said firmly, catching his eye. The hit to Murtagh’s ego was palpable, but he nodded jerkily nonetheless. She guided him to lie beside her on the gray, unforgiving stone, melding their bodies so neither fell off. Together they breathed for a time, gazing deep into each other’s eyes.

The faraway clinking of keys broke the silence. Fear clutched Murtagh’s heart; their time was running out. “Nasuada,” he said urgently, “I lo—“

Thorn roared suddenly, the vibrations of which shook the trees in the distance and roused Murtagh in a state of alarm. Zar’roc already halfway unsheathed, Murtagh whipped his head from side to side in an attempt to gauge the threat.

_Thorn?!_

The dragon sniffed. _You forgot yourself._

_What are you talking about? Did you have to announce our presence to all of Alagaësia?_

Thorn feasted one dazzling eye upon his puny Rider. Murtagh’s face was contorted in confusion and a hint of anger. _No one has forgotten us…least of all Queen Nasuada._

Many a story reached them, even as they strove to avoid as much civilization as possible, so Thorn now knew Nasuada was queen of their realm, Arya queen of hers, Eragon had left Alagaësia and both the dwarves and Urgals had been added to the contract between the races and the dragons. For the most part, he and his Rider were still regarded with dislike in the land, but the whisper machine Nasuada had unleashed upon her subjects was nothing if not effective. Five months into their self-imposed exile, Murtagh had returned from a supply run much cheerier than usual, nearly revealing himself to the spellcastor soldiers which patrolled each city street at regular intervals, for which Thorn chastised him terribly.

_Does your cheer make you mad?_ he remembered growling. Murtagh had only continued to grin like a hatchling who’d made his first kill.

“No,” he’d said aloud, “I heard a rumour.”

Thorn cocked his large head.

Murtagh had linked his fingers behind his head and smirked at him. _Nasuada is most adept at both soft and hard power. First at the bakery and then at the tavern, I heard men discussing how she survived her ordeal in Urû—I mean Ilirea. They said you and I helped her escape! A man claimed he had seen her on your back exiting the ruined throne room._

Thorn vaguely recalled the wall of humans which had parted for him and Saphira. _That is hardly a rumour. It is simply the truth._

Murtagh had spent most of that night preening like an eagle, his infectious mood lifting Thorn’s.

Now, though, he scowled and childishly refused to look his dragon in the eye. _I told you not to call her that._

_Why not? Does her success not please you?_

_That is not it! The distance between she and I is already so great…Not that we could ever be…You still did not answer my question! Why did you roar so?_

Thorn wriggled, working out a kink in his back left paw. _You have let your emotions best you again. It is shameful to dream so, but not be man enough to fashion dream into reality. What would Tornac say?_

Murtagh’s eyebrows rose and flush coloured his cheeks. “You! You!” he sputtered, then in a tone both accusatory and mortified: “You watched my dream?!”

_Yes_ , Thorn admitted, feeling slightly sheepish. _I had to stop you before you lost yourself._

Simmering resentment radiated from Murtagh, but he did not respond.

_Peace._ Thorn rubbed his snout against Murtagh’s forehead, not an easy feat while flying. _It pains me to see you torn, but it will do no good to dream ahead of reality._

Murtagh’s thoughts coalesced as he gathered himself until all Thorn could feel from him was a yearning he could not inhibit.

_Do you love her?_ Thorn dared to ask. Murtagh closed his eyes and sighed deeply. _You quash dissent in every city we visit. Even now we head for Teirm. For her, yes?_

_Thorn! What good will saying yes do? Fate has granted me the worst hand, as usual._

_Hand? Is there a problem with your hand? Is that why Nasuada refused to bed you?_

“Aah!” Murtagh shrieked, thumping Thorn’s neck spike with both hands in retribution. Struggling to regain his composure, he said, _You already know what happened in the Hall of the Soothsayer. My dreams may betray my…desires…but the dream itself is not real. I am not a man worthy of Nasuada. I was barely worthy to share in her pain, and even then I could not save her! There is no use dwelling on what is done. I left because it was the right thing to do. I refuse to speak more of it and don’t you dare watch my dreams again!_

_Hmm, it seems to me that she affected you a great deal. We cannot live this way forever. At least, you cannot. Why deny yourself the opportunity to vie for her hand?_

_She is a queen! Of a fledgling, fractured Empire at that! I am…a disgraced Rider. It would only complicate her position if I revealed myself. I would never be accepted by the Varden. The dwarves want to kill me._ He groaned, _And to top it all off, I am immortal._

Thorn calmly refuted all his points. _The Varden does not exist as it once did. What is wrong with being a consort? As for immortality, is it never aging yourself that bothers you, or that Nasuada will continue to?_

_I will never be king, Thorn, you know that. Would you want to be tied to that throne again? And just so you know, I’m not bothered by the idea that one day Nasuada’s beauty may fade—though I highly doubt it—but that she will eventually die._

_Right now, you remove obstacles from her path in the dark. Is that not what the research into El-Harim is? At her side, you would remove them in the light of day._

Though his intention had been to rouse Murtagh from his slumber, both literally and metaphorically, the opposite had occurred. Murtagh’s thoughts were dreary, stained with helplessness. _He truly feels himself powerless_ , Thorn realized. Their silent conversation had taken up most of the day and as the brilliant sunset began in the west, he angled down towards the cool cover provided by the forest on their right. _You forget Nasuada may feel the same way_.

_I know she does, that’s why I have no intention of going back to Ilirea!_

_I meant she may also miss you, Murtagh. As I recall, she did not want you to leave._

_There is no good way for this to end._

_She put her faith in you to help her escape. She trusted you, even when she had every reason not to. Nasuada is an intelligent and resilient woman. Do you not think she could maneuver us out of this predicament?_

_And what about you Thorn? Do you want to return to Ilirea?_

Thorn considered his words carefully. _There are many things we left unexplored there. It has not completely relinquished its hold on me._

Murtagh scowled, thoughts roiling beneath the surface as they landed. He shuffled through the saddle bags until he found his bedroll, which he promptly unrolled and threw himself down upon, facing away from Thorn.

The red dragon exhaled smoke from his nostrils and lay his head next to Murtagh. He did not plan to sleep, not until Murtagh’s mood lifted anyway. The thrum of the undulating waves nearby was pleasant, as was the growing twilight. They were a ways away from Ceunon, camped around one of the many bends of the Ninor River, though their flight led them closer and closer to the capital every day.

It was nearly pitch black when he heard Murtagh mutter and then a red werelight floated above their heads. He wandered into the forest to collect stray branches for tinder. He seemed calmer than before, so without opening his eyes, Thorn extended his consciousness until he had wrapped his Rider’s in kindness and compassion. _You are not alone_. Murtagh sent back a gentle squeeze in response.

Once the kindling was piled high, Thorn opened his maw and doused it in fire. He was preparing to settle down for the night when he felt hands glide over his flank. He lifted his wing immediately and Murtagh dragged his bedroll into his dragon’s warm embrace.

He had nearly floated away in the lulls of sleep when Murtagh whispered, “Sometimes I dream of my mother. Have you ever dreamed of yours?”

_Not since I was a hatchling._

_I hate her for leaving me in Urû’baen._ He shook with the force of his hate. _I cannot fathom any decision she made. Even more than Morzan, the person she was scares me. What kind of mother would leave her child with a monster?_ This time he shook with sobs.

_You have not been without love, Murtagh._ Thorn presented an image of Tornac’s smiling face, then Nasuada’s and Eragon’s. _You are no longer the man who would switch places with your brother in an instant._

Murtagh sniffed, _You were always stronger than me._

Thorn ruffled his wings. _Well, of course. I am an apex predator. You could never hope to compete._

That managed to pull a dry chuckle out of Murtagh. _Thank you, Thorn, truly._

Once his breathing evened, Thorn peeked once more at Murtagh’s dreams before giving in to his slumber. His last thought was: _Love is also red_.


	3. In Times of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A catch up with all the favourites from The Inheritance Cycle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, details can be boring, but I’m hoping this chapter expresses the tediousness and unnecessary decorum of Nasuada’s day-to-day life, the changes in the political climate as well as what all our favs are up to.

Farica winced as she handed the list to the cook. It was quite lengthy and required ingredients not readily available in the capital. Its exorbitance was due to the occasion and though her Lady normally did not concern herself with such matters, she had personally overseen the selection of dishes for this dinner.

The cook, for his part, was outraged. “Where am I supposed to find Nagra?!” he yelled, shaking a pudgy fist at her. “And what is this ‘no cross-contamination’ nonsense? This will require me to use double the cutlery and utensils! All for some pretentious elves!” A piece of spittle flew from his mouth to land on her cheek; Farica nearly gagged resisting the urge to wipe it off.

Edmund, the gorgeous kitchenhand who was the sole reason Farica had volunteered for this delivery, stifled a laugh from where he stood next to his superior. Farica blushed profusely; for her own sake, she hoped this ended quickly. While the cook was known and loved for his temper, she did not appreciate being the laughingstock of the kitchen, no matter how badly she wanted Edmund to notice her.

“Please, sir,” she tried, “Queen Nasuada entrusted this task to you specifically; she speaks very highly of your cooking.”

This made the cook puff up even more. Good, so he wasn’t immune to flattery. Though the ruddiness in his face didn’t fade entirely, he spun on his heel and stalked away, grumbling about his underappreciated profession. This left Farica and Edmund to stare at each other.

It was all much too exciting. Farica couldn’t take it. “If you’ll excuse me,” she squeaked, scurrying past him.

*******

The men on the training grounds held their breath as the two warriors circled each other. A handful of the spectators had been present when Eragon Shadeslayer and Queen Arya Dröttning had sparred under Farthen Dur long ago and thus excitedly relayed the ferocious grace of the elves to their comrades.

In the center of the field were neither of the two, however.

Nasuada adjusted her sweaty grip on her sword. Her Nighthawks stood a ways behind her, ready to intervene at any second. She could feel Jormunder’s disapproval and Elva’s wicked delight from where they sat in the stands.

The elf in front of her looked relaxed and completely at ease. Before he became an ambassador for his race, Eragon had told her he trained him in swordplay during his time in Du Weldenvarden. He appeared younger than her, but for all she knew, he could’ve been born before her grandfather.

All of the traits Nasuada associated with elves—patience, wisdom, impartiality—Vanir lacked. He was haughty, stubborn and quick to anger, and yet he got along famously with her men. He’d even managed to crack Elva’s apathetic façade. Farica was reduced to a blubbering mess around him, as were many of her servants. He did not have Blodhgarm’s musk, but the effect was identical.

She knew Jormunder and her Nighthawks did not consider her proficiency with a sword crucial enough that she should strive to improve it, but it was important to her that she be able to hold her own in a fight, whether it be against dwarves, men, Urgals or elves. Especially now that various benefactors of Galbatorix’s regime could no longer count on her support. Thus, though she had never traded blows with an elf before, Nasuada had studied their swordsmanship extensively. A thick tome entitled _Swordplay Amongst the Races_ had been most useful in this regard.

Vanir struck with a flourish that forced her to leap back. The clang of steel against steel could be heard clearly from the castle windows, through which many onlookers peeped, unbeknownst to the participants. Parrying with more brute strength than skill, Nasuada targeted his exposed right side, but with a slight turn of the wrist, he flicked her away. They continued in this manner for several minutes: he allowing her to get so close she was sure she’d land a hit before deflecting with no discernable effort. Her arm began to droop with exertion.

Though she was clearly sloppy and defending herself badly, never once did he deal her a finishing blow. He wouldn’t even tap her out. He seemed to enjoy being the object of her singular focus. While she knew his act was allowing her to save face, she couldn’t help but be irritated that he was indulging her subjects’ perception of her weakness.

They spun around each other and Nasuada abandoned her frontal attack for a less traditional approach. Since it was impossible for her to slip under his ironclad defences, she would have to rely on common courtesy to do the trick. Holding her sword low, parallel to her waist, she feinted as if she was going to slash at his torso while fully intending to shoulder him in the sternum. Her momentum carried her further than she expected, as Vanir had made no motion to guard, instead grabbing her wrist with inhuman speed and jerking her flush against him. Her sword clattered to the ground.

Elva’s cackle was unmistakeable. Nasuada’s chest heaved and she felt her cheeks redden. His hold had her arm trapped above their heads and there was nowhere else to look but into his eyes. Like liquid gold, they shone under the noonday sun. In their depths, she glimpsed the thrill of the hunt, the chill of a breeze rippling through a valley dotted with edelweiss, hyacinths and gladioli, the silencing glory of sunrise. Then he blinked, and she saw herself as he saw her: the inky blackness of night upon which stars twinkled, regal, intelligent, an arresting beauty, unlike any he had ever seen—

He let go. She staggered a little, as if waking from a dream.

“My Lady!” concerned voices chirped. She raised a hand in reassurance before turning to him, her chin lifted. Vanir smiled, tight-lipped.

“I appreciate what you were trying to do, Ambassador,” she said, speaking quietly and evenly, “but toying with me will not earn you favour, nor will it teach me commendable swordplay.”

His smile didn’t falter, but his gaze sharpened. Retrieving her sword, he presented it to her with a bow. “Of course, my Lady. It won’t happen again.”

She sheathed it before grasping the arm he offered and heading back towards the armoury. His skin was warm through the velvety texture of his shirt, though he had not broken a sweat. It felt unnerving to walk beside a man who admired her so; she had not thought elves even found humans attractive. She knew Eragon viewed Arya with a certain kind of terribly masked affection, and countless men and women had been enchanted by Islanzadi’s spellcastors, but Nasuada could not envision such a coupling.

“You have the talent and the drive, Nasuada,” he commented, “but when you are pressed, you revert to holding your sword like a dagger, and that is your undoing.”

She glanced at him, absorbing the remark in silence. Black hair, slightly longer than would be deemed appropriate for human soldiers, balanced impossibly upon his head in a flawless tousle. Trim, slanting eyebrows nestled above pupils the colour of Glaedr’s heart of hearts. Since he had arrived in Ilirea, they had spent much time together. Vanir was a brilliant strategist and had made suggestions regarding trade routes which even the Council had approved of. He made and carried conversation well, but Nasuada was sure he kept his true thoughts to himself.

Farid, the manservant she’d appointed him, had told Farica, who had dutifully reported to her, that Vanir did not partake of wine of any sort and was an exquisite painter. He protected the elves’ interests and unabashedly critiqued Nasuada, sometimes with impassioned, if roundabout, insults that had the Nighthawks reaching for their blades. His apparent youth and frankness reminded her of old friends who she could not count on seeing for the foreseeable future.

The thudding of boots behind them reminded her of their entourage. She returned her borrowed sword to its rack as her Nighthawks, Jormunder and Elva drew up alongside them.

Jormunder shot Vanir a distrustful look. “My Lady,” he spoke to Nasuada, “There is no need for such a display. No one doubts your prowess, but do not doubt the Nighthawks’ as well.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vanir wink at Elva. She let out a high pitched giggle. Nasuada was taken aback. The noise was incredibly unsettling.

“General, your concern is understandable. I shall not discontinue my training, but rather carry on with more discretion.” She did not want to be humiliated in front of so many people ever again. A quick spar in the throne room every day was sure to be as good as lesson as any. _Wait, no, not the throne room…_

“Ambassador,” the captain of the Nighthawks, a surly looking man, addressed the elf, “Your kind may not have the same concepts of decency, but you would do well to abide by ours on our land.”

Nasuada frowned. The language and rhetoric employed by some of the people in Ilirea disturbed her. The conclusion of the war and the subsequent dissolution of a common enemy had made room for old hatreds to burst forth. Many of the Varden’s soldiers had fought alongside all races, but it seemed only superficial understanding had been established. For months, she had been mulling over the issue, but no quick fix had presented itself. She thought to bring it up with Angela and maybe some of her advisors over dinner.

Fortunately, Vanir was not provoked. He simply gave the captain a blank stare.

“Captain,” Nasuada admonished, “That sort of thinking has no place in this kingdom. This is a warning, but if I hear of this again, you will be punished.”

The captain stiffened. “Very well, my Queen. I only hope you defend your own as well as you do your…allies.”

A sharp retort was on her lips but she knew if she snapped now she would lose their favour. This issue needed to be given highest priority, otherwise she would lose what limited control she had. Keeping peace appeared to be much more difficult than making war.

“Oh, Henric, let us not forget your trysts with Lady Ryna, was it?” Elva casually inspected her nails. “That was just about the height of indecency if you ask me.”

His subordinates burst into laughter. The captain’s face was cherry red but he dared not speak against the witch-child. With rigid movements, he guided the Nighthawks back until they were out of earshot.

“Thank you,” Nasuada said to the girl.

Elva simply flipped her hair and seized Vanir’s hand. “Come. You promised me a painting.”

Vanir beamed, “Of course, my Lady.” He picked her up and placed her on his shoulders, waving goodbye to Nasuada. The glee on Elva’s face made her look her age for once. For the elves, children are sacred, Eragon had told her. The ultimate expression of love. Elva’s skirt fluttered in the breeze and Nasuada itched to be out of her trousers as soon as possible. The rough fabric was chafing the delicate skin of her inner thighs. She watched them go, at once wistful and relieved.

“Do not worry, Nasuada,” Jormunder’s deep voice brushed away her melancholy. “They are not all like that. The majority are welcoming.”

“It is the minority I worry about,” she confessed. “Theirs are the voices that are amplified.” Jormunder was the one she trusted most in her court. In some ways, he had taken on the role of her father. He was the only one who she believed truly respected her and never sought to control or usurp her, unlike the rest of the Council.

He turned his face to the sky, thoughtful. Fluffy white clouds drifted across the horizon, one in the shape of a dragon. Another reminded Nasuada of a burrow grub and she quickly averted her eyes.

“Will you be attending the dinner tonight?” she inquired. Due to his recent promotion, she had not seen as much of him lately. Commanding the Imperial Army took a significant chunk out of his family time, which she knew but he hadn’t complained about. Though she was confident no one else was better for the position, she felt guilty nonetheless.

Jormunder grinned, “This is the dinner which has the cook tearing out his hair, yes? I wouldn’t dare miss it.”

*******

The long, rectangular table which had been set up in the ballroom shook from the force of nearly two dozen fists pounding it in merriment.

Íorûnn, Chief of Dûrgrimst Vrenshrrgn, her wolf-head helmet resting beside her, was regaling the guests with tales of a blushing Eragon during King Orik’s election. Some of the stories she spun were so fantastical, Nasuada could only believe they were fiction, but her dinner party was most amused.

In particular, Jeod, Trianna and Jormunder were doubled over, clutching their sides. A half alarmed, half charmed expression on her face, Helen patted Jeod on the back. From where she sat at the head of the table, Nasuada observed the smile Angela hid behind a hand. Beside her, Elva was talking Vanir’s ear off. His elegant chortles were just tapering off when he caught her eye. Again, his molten gaze pierced through her impersonal demeanor and she beheld Isidar Mithrim in the hushed tones of twilight, a sight which had entranced her throughout her childhood, a black flower blooming in a sea of white, its petals damp with dew, a chorus of birdsong and Vanir’s lips at her neck—

“My Lady,” Idris placed a hand on her arm, eyebrows drawn in concern, “Are you well?”

Immediately, the fog of her mind vanished and Nasuada cleared her throat. Hailing from Belatona, Idris was the current leader of the Nighthawks and also a member of the Wandering Tribes. Nasuada couldn’t have been more grateful for his interruption. She was glad she had seated him next to her; even though she was amongst friends, sometimes she felt like an imposter. Their experiences rarely rang true with her own, after all.

“I am,” she assured him. “How is your family?”

He observed her carefully before answering, “They are having some trouble…adjusting. Ilirea is a very different city than Belatona.”

 _Ah,_ Nasuada thought. Belatona was a port city renowned for its skilled craftspeople, most of whom belonged to the Wandering Tribes. Indigenous peoples had been living upon the land long before King Broddring ever set foot in Alagaësia and as a result of trade and intermarriage, Belatona was a very unique, tight-knit cultural hub composed of peoples of all manner of colouring and features. Its governance structure was also unheard of elsewhere, except perhaps in Teirm: the Wandering Tribes and Indigenous peoples lived semi-autonomously both inside and outside the city walls, free to come and go as they pleased. Issues were filtered through stratified community councils until they reached the throne room, whereupon ambassadors, using both friendly relations and economic self-sufficiency, demanded solutions.

Ilirea, in contrast, was unwelcoming at best. “I apologize,” she said, “This city still reeks of loss and anger.”

Idris chewed on his smoked potato starter attentively. “It is good for people to see variety in power,” he noted, “as long as power actually serves the people. Do you understand, my Lady?”

“If the system is unjust, figureheads, no matter who they are, can also be complicit in the subjugation of the people,” she agreed. She glanced at the Surdan scientist, Jae-Il, whose one arm rested gingerly upon the shoulders of Teirm’s ambassador, the sharp-tongued Anarkali, while the other gestured passionately with a spoon. The two were young, and, having seen both Surda and Teirm’s populations, Nasuada sincerely hoped the diversification wasn’t a front.

Following her gaze, Idris said, “I pray to Gokukara they are not.”

Avoiding another intense look from Vanir, Nasuada called for more wine. She was not one for indulgence, but he was making her inordinately nervous. False poise would do for the moment. The sunset visible from the floor-to-ceiling windows was dazzling. Cobblestone streets were slowly lit as runners with lanterns made their way to the posts Nasuada had had installed to ease night travel. Her reflection in the crystal goblet she held was fractured into a thousand pieces.

Chatting animatedly on her other side were her recently appointed ministers. She had chosen them herself, in spite of her dislike of the practice, because they had impressed her with their novel ideas at the open council meeting she’d organized at the start of her rule. Idris had recommended the idea and it was similar enough to the public hearings she’d hosted in the Varden that she felt comfortable implementing it on a larger scale. Nasrin and Kanae’s ardent debate over whether the trade agreement with Surda would damage the livelihoods of local farmers in both areas stressed Nasuada out just listening in. She had spent all afternoon taking heat from Orrin through the two-way mirror reserved for him on just this matter.

Jae-Il and Anarkali abandoned their avid flirting to engage Arezu and Maa’ingan, her ministers of healthcare and arts and culture, undoubtedly to discuss the business they’d been sent here for. The Surdan scientist was spearheading the production of new inventions in King Orrin’s lab. There were even rumours they’d almost developed a device to prove Eragon’s claim of the roundness of the world. He stared longingly as Maa’ingan led Anarkali away with a hand on the small of her back. It was probably best he’d moved their conversation away from the table, as Teirm’s ambassador was quite the loudmouth. She had pestered Nasuada relentlessly about promoting tourism of the independent city-state within the capital until Nasuada had finally caved and offered her an audience with Maa’ingan.

The party entertained themselves while they waited for the last guests to arrive. Saanvika, Nar Garzvhog’s Urgal ambassador to the Broddring Empire, and Zhufor, the world’s first Kull Rider, were due over an hour ago. A messenger scurried to Jormunder’s side and whispered into his ear. The General nodded and then nodded again at Nasuada’s inquisitive look. She took that to mean that they would be received soon.

Realizing she was neglecting her duties as host, Nasuada wandered around the table. Snippets from Angela’s conversation with Íorûnn wafted towards her over the cacophony. A meek looking dwarf maid was hunched next to the Chief, picking feebly at her food: Halime, King Orik’s ambassador. The attention levelled the dwarves’ way had been doubled due to the presence of Aslihan, the first dwarven Rider, also a member of Íorûnn’s clan, and this seemed to have had a negative effect on the ambassador.

Orik hoped to restore the dwarves’ faith in Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin by choosing his ambassador from amongst them. _But how would it feel_ , Nasuada thought, _serving in a city where nearly your entire clan was slaughtered?_ After all, Ilirea was where Az Sweldn rak Anhûin’s blood feud with the Dragon Riders originated.

A heavy braid hung down the Rider’s back. Aslihan’s thick eyebrows framed a serious face and increased the intensity of her deep-set brown eyes. Splotchy patches of white stuck out on her chestnut skin, creeping below her neckline. Nasuada wondered if the woman’s dragon was in her chamber.

“Nasuada,” Íorûnn greeted her, flashing a gleaming smile. The other women murmured their hellos before pulling up a chair for her.

“Have you been enjoying your time in the capital?” she asked the Chief and Aslihan. “We’re quite appreciative of your timely arrival, all thanks to the Ambassador, of course.”

Halime blushed. If Aslihan was surprised at being addressed by the High Queen, she did not show it, and replied with a cleverness Nasuada had begun to associate with members of her clan: “Ilirea’s progress shows. I did think the parade through the streets was a bit much, though.”

For the first time that night, Nasuada laughed genuinely.

“All the other Riders are gone,” Angela chimed in, “If the Kingdom doesn’t lay claim quickly, you lot might disappear too!”

Íorûnn’s guffaws muffled Halime’s nervous giggles, turning the heads of many men as she tossed back her brown tresses, including Vanir. Nasuada supposed it could be considered unbecoming, but she herself was fascinated by the woman’s shrewd nature, for Íorûnn thrummed with confidence. Her easygoing approach to life had contextualized Nasuada’s stresses. _Her burden is similar to mine, and yet she is not hampered by it._

“Come now, Aslihan,” Íorûnn said, “They had to show you off. You are old enough to know a time when this was unthinkable for dwarves, and now you will be the first to change history.”

A snort escaped the Rider. She did not care much about changing history, she was worried about the bribes her Chief would be offered to vie for her favour. Opponents of the dwarves’ addition to the magical contract had already delivered threats to her family’s door.

Nasuada wasn’t so sure it would be that easy either. With a Rider now affiliated with each race— _two for the humans_ , she corrected herself—the balance of power would be more difficult to upset, yes, but there could be no forgetting that the systems already in existence favoured the elves and the humans. There were sure to be economic loopholes which those unwilling to give up control would exploit against the dwarves and Urgals. Already the petitions of two such lobby groups—one who had created a cheaper alternative to the dwarves’ flameless lanterns, and a guild of musicians whose instruments were fashioned from Urgal horns—lay on her desk.

“You won’t be here for long,” Nasuada promised, “but if I can improve your stay in any way, please let me know.” A month after their hatching, the dragons were now large enough that Queen Arya had insisted Aslihan and Zhufor travel with Vanir back to Du Weldenvarden where they would undergo their preliminary training before heading to Eragon. It was Nasuada who had requested they attend a celebration in the capital before leaving.

In the periphery, she saw Vanir excuse himself, presumably heading to the lavatory. Although come to think of it, she had never seen an elf use one, not even Arya. Elva looked bereft at his departure. Nasuada was vaguely aware of the effect the wine was having on her thinking.

“He is easy on the eyes,” Íorûnn drawled, resting her chin in her hand, and there was no time for Nasuada to be embarrassed as all the women hooted their agreement. “Do you intend to marry, High Queen?”

The shock must have been evident on her face because Angela stepped in, “My, my, you are forward, Chief.” The witch’s eyes twinkled, but her mind was more reserved. She did not think Nasuada needed to answer a question like that.

With the three dwarves waiting for her response, Nasuada fidgeted. “I don’t know,” she finally said, and the voice that came out of her mouth sounded sad even to her.

“I don’t think I ever will,” Íorûnn remarked flippantly, successfully steering the attention away, “Being wedded to the throne is work enough. Besides, there is many a dwarf…” and here she winked mischievously.

Mortified, Halime smothered her gasp with two hands. Aslihan and Angela were impressed.

Eager to shift the conversation to any other topic, Nasuada said, “Angela, I don’t believe the Chief has heard of your and Elva’s visit to Eragon.” Then she gulped the last of her wine and left the quartet to their own devices.

The hallway was sheltered from the pleasant din of the ballroom once the door closed behind her. The cool evening breezes of midsummer trickled through windows the servants had thankfully left ajar, soothing Nasuada’s flushed skin. As she looked upon Ilirea, she felt a profound sense of loneliness. Roran and Katrina had been unable to accept her invitation to dinner as Ismira had fallen ill. Neither Eragon nor Orik nor Arya could shirk their duties. And the only other person she had wanted to attend had last been spotted flying toward Ceunon. It occurred to her that she had not been Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, for almost two years.

The repetition of each day killed her drive. She felt it would take her multiple lifetimes to achieve the mobilization that had been the very core of the Varden in this new kingdom of hers. In her lowest moments, she sometimes wished she’d never taken the throne.

The indescribable scent of sunbeams led her to him. Vanir leaned his elbows on the windowsill, illuminated in the dying light. He cut a striking figure and it stung Nasuada just to look at him.

“How do you do it?” she whispered. When his eyes flicked to her, a familiar thrill made her shiver. “Is it similar to Blodhgarm’s musk?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, your Majesty.” Vanir cocked his head, one side of his mouth twisting up.

“Is it magic?” She walked forward until there was less than an arm’s length between them.

“Check for yourself.” He held out a hand.

The cool touch of his fingers contained no influence but the drumming of her heart would not subside. “Not all magic can be felt,” she pointed out.

“I guess my Lady will just have to trust me then.” The alcove between lanterns where they stood obscured his fiery eyes enough that Nasuada was not apprehensive meeting his gaze.

“How does one unite a peoples, Vanir?” She wanted to know what he thought.

“I don’t believe you need me to answer that, Nasuada.”

She waved a hand, “Humour me.”

Releasing her, he turned back to the ledge. After a moment, she joined him there. A lone dahlia, withering in its vase, was their only companion.

“I used to think Eragon was weak,” Vanir began, “Humans had brought about the Fall of the Riders, how could they be entrusted with their resurrection? Moreover, they are inferior in every way to us elves.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the opposite sentiment amongst humans nowadays,” she said.

He plucked the flower from its vase and twirled the stem between his fingers. “Indeed. The key for me was to confront the basis for my supposed inherent superiority. After all, the elves were once responsible for the mass slaughter of dragons and vice versa, until there came those who dared to dream that there was another way. So why was I so insistent?

It was because I had yet to grapple with the benefits I’d received and still do from such a history. My tormenting of Eragon was an outlet for my anxieties regarding what I perceived as the loss of the elves’ power and my unwillingness to give up my stake in the current order. I can never forgive myself for that abhorrent behaviour.” He hung his head in shame.

“You sound as if you’ve thought of this for quite a while,” Nasuada observed. His internal reflection seemed genuine, but the guilt would only hold him back, and she stated as much. “Your guilt is understandable, but if you wallow in it too long, you won’t be able to dedicate yourself entirely to the cause.”

Vanir nodded sharply. “And that is why I came here, so that I would not fall into self-pity.”

“So then the only way to unite the people is to make them love for each other what they love for themselves.” Nasuada absently rubbed her wrists, a habit leftover from when they were shackled. “Then what of magic?”

“For so long, the Riders led the way, and anyone that suggested theirs was not an entirely just way was silenced, sooner or later. The power vacuum resulting from their demise does not have to be filled as in times past. Already Eragon has chosen the unpopular, yet correct in my eyes, route. Why should power be the determining factor in whether people are granted a voice?”

She glanced at him sideways, “I have heard you’re quite the spellcastor yourself.”

“If you are asking whether I agree with your anti-magic brigades, I do not. But, then, how could I? I do believe, however, that there must be a way.”

Nasuada sighed. While their conversation had not presented any new solutions, she felt lighter nevertheless.

“Here.” He held the dahlia out to her. It looked as though it had just bloomed, the once dull petals back to a vibrant purple, except now shot through with streaks of gold.

At her astonished look, he grinned, “I am adept at more than swordplay and magic.” Then, more seriously: “It is not as infamous as the flower Commander Fäolin gave to Queen Arya, but the dahlia symbolizes grace under pressure.”

Deeply touched, she could only say, “Thank you.”

Gently, he cupped her cheek, the other hand reaching for her waist. “You are not alone, Nasuada,” he murmured.

The light changed, moving further west, and now his eyes seared into her own. _The sun incarnate_ , she decided. She mirrored his posture with shaky hands, the dahlia still in her grasp.

“I don’t want to be,” she said softly, realizing as she did that it was true. Transfixed, she watched as he leaned closer and closer. A steady heat began building in her core.

Abruptly, he tipped her head back, exposing her throat, and finally placed his lips there. Soft and plush, they quickly bruised the tender skin. Grateful her colouring would protect her from embarrassment, Nasuada wrapped her arms around him. His heartbeat in no way betrayed his lustful state. She moved his mouth to hers and their tongues slipped together. Before she could stop herself, she traced his tapering ears.

How long they stood there, tasting each other, Nasuada could not say, but she broke away first for air. The horizon was dark. Anyone could have seen them. Vanir pressed his forehead against hers affectionately.

“The Kull Rider will surely have arrived by now.” Her swollen, heavy lips shaped the words awkwardly. With practiced ease, she suppressed her rising panic and instructed him to wait a while before re-entering. _I shouldn’t have done that._

Cold sweat gathered on her palms as she tried to sort out her mussed hair and the wrinkles in her dress. There was no denying it, she was deeply attracted to Vanir, but this awareness only increased her unease. _You fool, how do you know he’s not just trying to gain favour for the elves?_ Even slightly inebriated, she recognized that as a ridiculous thought. _But could it look like that to the people anyway?_

*******

All her careful planning to make it back to her seat discreetly was for naught; Jormunder confronted her immediately. “Where were you? Zhufor and Saanvika have been here for—“

“There was an unavoidable matter,” she interjected, sweeping past him to the apex of the congregation. 

She struck the side of the nearest glass with a spoon. Clear notes rang out, quieting the attendees. She forced herself to smile, “This is the moment we have been waiting for since Galbatorix was defeated. The first dwarf and Urgal Riders are among us!”

Jubilant cheers erupted. Zhufor, as he was a Kull, towered above the rest even while seated. Resplendent black hair, braided into a crown, wrapped twice around his huge horns, forming a circlet almost as wide as his grin. He was of Herndali Yhanna’s clan. Saanvika, the hardy Urgal ambassador whom Nasuada held a great affinity for, thumped her brethren on the back. Íorûnn and Angela jerked Aslihan to her feet, probably so she could be seen above the waving arms of the crowd.

“To Aslihan and Zhufor,” Nasuada raised her goblet, “I welcome you warmly. Ilirea welcomes you warmly. You represent the dawning of a new era, and we are privileged indeed to witness it. Some may continue to nurture animosities of old, but if they think they will have a say in writing history, they are sorely mistaken!” Her voice resonated, impactful and powerful. Scanning the hopeful and determined faces of friends who had helped her build this kingdom, she could not fathom letting them down. In fact, it seemed more impossible now than it ever had.

“You are with us for a terribly short time, and there are many important matters to discuss.” At the predictable reluctant groans, she chucked. “Tomorrow, there will be a festival in your honour, but, for now, we feast!” Then she tucked her skirts beneath her and ushered for the servants.

They emerged from behind closed doors, dashing between the table settings to place soups, meats, fruits and breads in front of eager guests. Íorûnn’s crowing of “Nagra?!” was met with booming laughter. Barrels of mead and bottles of wine were carted in, ransacked from Galbatorix’s personal collection, which Nasuada had had to concede was impeccable.

The tablecloth fluttered, a hand skating across her exposed shoulders before Vanir dropped into the chair on her right. “Spoken like a true queen,” he said. She pursed her lips; his casual intimacy would not be missed by everyone. And sure enough, when she managed to escape the gravity of his gaze, Angela’s wink made her throat tighten. She gestured for the witch to join them.

“Elva’s answering nature’s call at the moment,” Angela mentioned, a seemingly innocuous statement which served as more than enough warning for Nasuada.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she said, “The rhetoric of some of the people in this city worries me.” Vanir watched her intently and she knew he was recalling the morning’s incident.

Angela’s eyebrows narrowed. “Does it now. What are they saying?”

“Oh, you know, the usual drivel about how I favour every race above the humans.”

“It’s unsurprising,” the witch shrugged, curls bouncing. “But you leading by example is setting the right tone, and the Black Hand is nearly exterminated, no?”

“Trianna tells me they’ve all but ferreted out the last,” Vanir asserted. After the war, Nasuada had allowed the sorceress to keep her position and the leader of Du Vrangr Gata was now working with the Nighthawks to soundlessly prevent any attempts on Nasuada’s throne.

“Then why are you so concerned?” Angela questioned the Queen.

Nasuada bit her lip. “If the average commoner has this attitude, what are those interested in toppling this Empire saying? Somehow their words resonate more with the populace than my offers of friendship.” A finger pressed against her mouth and she lurched back as Vanir succeeded in getting her to release her lip.

“Ambassador,” her teeth were gritted, “next time you’ll lose the finger.”

She thought hurt crossed his face. Angela cut in smoothly, “Why are you consulting me and not any of your extremely qualified advisors?”

The witch had been there from the beginning. She was more than she seemed, though Nasuada had no intention of forcing her to give up her secrets. Angela offered her help willingly or not at all. “You have seen more than the average commoner. You have walked among all the races and have no aversion to utilizing less traditional methods. Surely you can agree that the pervasiveness of this thinking is not proportional to its proponents.”

Angela’s eyes widened in realization. “You think the dwindling Black Hand couldn’t be enough to maintain such attitudes.”

“Are you saying we have a hidden enemy?” The chandelier above flickered, as if reacting to Vanir’s darkening expression.

Nasuada nodded tightly. “I’ve shared my theory with Jormunder and Trianna,” she said, answering their unspoken question, “and we’d like to employ some ears on the streets.”

“I’ll do it,” the elf volunteered immediately, but Nasuada was already shaking her head.

“You are too recognizable,” she explained, “Infiltration must be done by someone who is unknown to the public.”

Angela leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well,” she said, “obviously I’m out. Elva might be valuable in determining the perpetrator or perpetrators’ true intentions, but she is a child and hardly a spy. Usually these situations call for someone predisposed to be sympathetic to the ideas of our enemy, someone the public already believes possesses questionable loyalty to the Kingdom.” She looked at Nasuada pointedly.

Her heart began a steady drum beat. “It’s been long enough,” the witch continued, “Perhaps he can be of use.”

“Who?” Vanir asked.

Nasuada couldn’t bring herself to say his name, so Angela responded for her: “Murtagh.”

The elf’s face contorted further and he growled, “You cannot be serious. He is a traitor and a murderer, hardly inconspicuous.”

Every damning word made Nasuada flinch, but she kept her tone detached. “This popular belief will act as the perfect cover. It is precisely why he is the man for the job.” Her gaze drifted to Angela. “But tasking someone with finding him is also a hard sell.”

“Well, he did grow up here and his mother was the quintessential Black Hand.” The witch scrutinized Nasuada for an uncomfortably long time before acquiescing. “Alright, leave it to me.”

*******

Later, when she had exhausted pleasantries, dessert was vanquished and everyone was satisfyingly drunk, a lute was brought forth. Nasuada and Vanir swayed slowly to the haunting melody in the center of the terrace, a full moon peering at them from its perch in the clouds. The smell of lilacs in the air was overwhelming. The floor-to-ceiling windows had been flung open, and guests now rested on benches in the veranda or enjoyed moonlit walks around the lush garden. It made her shudder to think of Galbatorix relaxing here.

Other couples neighboured them, heels clacking on the cobblestone. Jeod had managed to coax out a reluctant Helen and Jae-Il and Anarkali held fast to each other, whether for intimacy or balance, Nasuada wasn’t sure. Íorûnn winked at Nasuada as she followed Idris through the arbour leading to the greenhouse.

Angela had disappeared with Elva a while ago, ominously hinting at her plans to draw Murtagh back to Ilirea. Nasuada was still undecided whether he should be lured in like a common criminal or simply sent for via messenger. Regardless, she knew it would take some time. Elva’s mouth had been set, glaring daggers at Vanir’s casual hand on Nasuada’s back before Angela had guided her mercifully out of sight. Jormunder had also turned in for the night, eager to return to his family.

In between the carefully manicured rose bushes and boxwood hedges, a circle headed by Trianna and Saanvika claimed the empty grass. The Urgal ambassador was singing in her guttural way, and the vines crawling up the stone walls of the castle, animated by the sorceress’ hand, shimmied to and fro. Servants whose duties had ended long ago clapped excitedly while Yelloweyes, who had finally shown himself, flicked his tail as if waiting to pounce every time the vines twisted. Nasuada noticed Farica and Edmund, the kitchen boy whom her maidservant waxed poetic about, holding hands amidst the spectators.

Her four head ministers, Nasrin, Arezu, Kanae and Maa’ingan, huddled together under the cover of the gazebo to the north of the promenade. They had each approached her about an hour ago to inform her of the night’s successful endeavors. Glad that business had at least been unofficially settled, Nasuada leaned into Vanir’s shoulder. His hands tightened their grip on her waist and she drew warmth from the contact. Her concerns had not abated, but in nighttime they seemed suspended, like insects in the sap she’d seen dripping from the trees in Ilirea.

Aslihan and Zhufor turned out to be of the same mind and were laughing boisterously while ever precariously downing glasses of mead. The wooden bench they were sprawled on creaked in protest. Nasuada had learned that the Riders’ dragons resided in the dragonry some leagues from the castle. Isidar, Aslihan’s hazy pink dragon, was named understandably after the priceless jewel, while Ilgra, Zhufor’s yellow dragon, blinding like the sun, bore the name of a great warrior. Both were female, which, when the news had been conveyed to Eragon, had resulted in a crowing Saphira. Nasuada had refrained from mentioning that unless Fírnen was expected to sire the entirety of the next generation, with Thorn out of the picture, it would’ve been beneficial to have at least one other male dragon.

“Your mind is consumed,” Vanir whispered in her ear. “Allow me share your burden.”

She sighed, resistant to divulging her thoughts. A large portion of her brain was occupied with methods of re-establishing the professional relationship she’d had with the elf but a mere four hours ago. The rest reflected tiredly on the dramatic changes of the last couple of years. The last time she had hosted a feast such as this, Roran and Katrina were to be married. Eragon and Arya had both been by her side. Countless sacrifices and ruthless planning it had taken, but she had been certain of every command she gave. The right way had been clear.

“How much has changed, Vanir,” she murmured, “Did you ever think elves would behold Ilirea again?”

He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Did you ever believe Galbatorix would be defeated?”

She hesitated. Did she? With each siege they had undertaken, Urû'baen had loomed ever closer. She had only thought as far as getting Eragon to Galbatorix’s doorstep. If they all ceased to exist afterwards, she had been prepared for that. But success? Had she been prepared for that?

“Never,” she admitted, ashamed.

“Nor I,” he said, “but the past is to be learned from, not dwelled upon.”

Nasuada didn’t agree. The past had its roots dug deep into her. It frightened her to think she may rule her whole life without making the impact she had as leader of the Varden.

 _It is over_ , she thought, _but it hasn’t ended._

Kissing a trail behind her ear, Vanir’s cool breath ghosted across her cheek. Relaxed now in his embrace, Nasuada lifted her face to the night sky. Constellations whose names her father had taught her sparkled in the distance. The one that always caught her eye bewitched her again: Al-I'klil Ash-Shamali, with the magnificent Al-Fakkah and the twinkling An-Nasaqan. Its curves resembled her crown, though she imagined hers weighed much more.

He continued his ministrations, shifting his mouth down to her neck. The light of the stars shone behind her eyelids long after she had closed them.


	4. Tierm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murtagh and Thorn head to Teirm, where they have heard rumours of a strange group's recruitment operations...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The references to the events in Ceunon are from The Fork, The Witch and the Worm.
> 
> A/N: Had the worst writer's block writing this chapter, but I got through it. Thanks for sticking around! Enjoy :)

Three male voices, their scholarly tones leading Murtagh to believe they were well-read noblemen, conferred on the topic of Lord Risthart, who they deemed to be an unfit ruler for Tierm. Usually criticisms of heads of state were confined to the realm in which they resided, and so hearing his name was enough to pique Murtagh’s interest.

“He does not care what we say,” one man sneered, “so long as the public is allowed to continue to believe in their little fairy-tale of peace. He knows Tierm is in no state to face the Empire head on.”

“Be quiet!” another hissed, “they are always listening…”

Murtagh tossed a small curved brooch beneath their table while pretending to adjust his boots. It would capture their voices and later he would listen to their conversation comfortably. Beside him, Essie continued to animatedly described her frustration with her friends.

After some quiet, a third man spoke, his words crisp, “Did you hear that all shop signs are to be translated to—Urglan? Urgurglan? Does their language even have a name? It’s horribly unpronounceable—by the end of winter?

“That’s preposterous!” the other two exclaimed, “It’s not enough that they’re being let into our cities and taking our jobs? It’s unacceptable that they should be allowed to speak their language in our city; what if they’re plotting against us? We’d never know!”

“At least every man with half a head on his shoulders is able to tell Urgals are nothing but brutes! It’s the Wandering Tribes you have to look out for,” one warned, “they look just enough like us to confuse the commoner.” Enthusiastic agreement followed.

“Although,” the man continued, “the peoples of the Wandering Tribes look somewhat like Urgals, what with their dark skin. As if they were dropped in horse dung.” The three men cackled.

“This is all Nasuada—my apologies, _Lady_ _Nightstalker’s—_ fault.” The title gifted to the Queen by the Urgals in deference of her power and used exclusively in respect was spat with hatred out of the man’s mouth.

“What did we expect?” another shook his head, “Crowning a woman? Ridiculous. Even my wife agrees.”

“Your wife is a…wise woman,” his friend said, and the sound of lips being licked lasciviously was heard. There was a tense silence, but the other man didn’t react to the jibe.

“She is quite an exotic beauty, though. Nasuada, I mean.” If Murtagh had a visual, he would’ve glimpsed a strange mixture of lust and revulsion on their faces. “Alas, you can’t tell what she’s thinking, if she even thinks at all, what with her dark skin marring her expressions.”

“If the elves are angels, she’s a devil.” They guffawed at their hilarious joke.

“At least,” one man slurped his drink noisily, pausing for dramatic effect, “Risthart bends over easily.” The wobbly tavern table creaked with the weight of their slamming fists and open palms.

“Ah, you’re too much,” his friend’s voice wavered with suppressed laughter. “But as long as he doesn’t bother our recruitment, I don’t care when, where or for whom he bows.”

“He’s a whore for money, but then, who isn’t?”

“I take it that this means shipping will remain in our hands?”

“No foreigners will enter that business if Risthart wants to continue his farce of a rule.”

“When is the migration?” one interjected.

A man burped. “The numbers are still too low. Perhaps in a few weeks.”

There was a sigh. “This city is just full of families. Ceunon has no men of the right material. It’s time to move on. We’ll meet again on the new moon.” Rustling as cloaks were donned and then Murtagh felt the faint breeze from their departure. Not long after, he had to make his own hasty exit due to Sarros’ duplicity. But just before he disappeared into the shadows, Murtagh watched from the window as the tavern owner, Essie’s father, froze at the table the men had been seated at. A handprint, speckled with gold dust, was clearly visible on the left corner of the wood.

*******

A rooster crowed somewhere in the city and the streets smelled of fresh rain. Murtagh had passed through the southern gates without incident. Their white marble reflected sunlight and he squinted, shading his eyes with a hand as he considered where to go.

He had never been to Tierm before, but it had been discussed often in the capital. As the Empire’s primary port city, Galbatorix had convened regularly with his officials to ensure the city’s civilians didn’t get any ridiculous ideas about profiting off of the shipping businesses they ran. Thus, Murtagh was unsurprised to see the same poverty he had in Urû'baen; beggars accosted visitors and nobles at the gates and markets, and the homeless, abandoned by this new city-state just as they had been the last, slept in nooks between shops. He watched a woman beat a sickly looking man off her porch with a broom.

The tiered layout of Tierm’s buildings also personified its tiered classes. Slums gradually gave way to aristocratic luxury, narrow paths widened to cobblestone roads down which horse-buggy carts were drawn, and the inaudible padding of barely clothed feet was replaced by clacking heels. Tourists inevitably voyaged to the towering citadel in the northeast sector. Murtagh was curious as to the source of the light blinking intermittently from its center.

Tornac had been unforgiving in drilling notable history into his skull and he quickly came to the conclusion that while the city’s architecture protected it from pirates, it left it vulnerable to the work of resident thieves, who could easily run along the rooftops much as he was doing at the moment. Marked grooves made it easy to find footholds, but he still cast a silencing spell to mute the thudding of his boots. With the rising sun behind him now, he took a moment to glance up at the lightening sky. Thorn flew somewhere overhead, at a height so great even Murtagh’s enhanced vision could not detect him. He was vehemently opposed to this strategy, but Thorn was adamant. _Seeing as the likelihood of you finding trouble is greater even than me finding a meal,_ he’d growled, _we will do this my way_.

It was hard to argue with a dragon. His connection with him was currently akin to a kite string, thin and pulled taut. He suspected only monumental changes in Thorn’s emotions or thoughts would be decipherable; still, it comforted him just knowing he was there.

Murtagh cast his mind out over the city, a brash yet reliable shortcut to finding trouble. It filled him with a sense of giddiness; he was the strongest magician in the Broddring Empire, maybe even all of Alagaësia, he could afford to throw a little caution to the wind. The sensory input was overwhelming, hundreds of consciousness pressing up against his own in the instant it took him to tamp them down to a respectable distance. Only one man had ever breached his mental barriers, and that man was dead.

Ceunon had been eventful; he hadn’t expected his informant to betray him. Murtagh truly regretted the scuffle which had damaged the tavern; the fright on Essie’s face still made him wince. The majority of the nearly two years he’d spent exploring the El-Harim mystery had been slow moving; he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t grown a little relaxed. But the implications of what Sarros had told him were enormous, and made his approach seem haphazard.

_In El-Harim, there lived a man_

_A man with yellow eyes_

_To me, he said, “Beware the whispers, for they whisper lies.”_

_Do not wrestle with the demons of the dark_

_Or else upon your mind they’ll place a mark_

_Do not listen to the shadows of the deep_

_Else they’ll haunt you even when you sleep_

Sometimes, he could still hear Nasuada chanting the rhyme in his ear, almost as if she were right next to him. He shuddered involuntarily.

No doubt a great unknown awaited him there, but known problems were plentiful also. For while he had been trying to coax information out of Sarros, behind him a very interesting conversation had been taking place. Folding into a crouch, he unclasped a shimmering piece from his cloak.

This enchanted object was one of his more ingenious espionage creations and had been inspired by an impromptu trip to the ocean. Deep into what was now Surdan territory, Thorn had flown, until it seemed they’d reached the edge of the very world. Once they’d passed the Southern Isles, there was only water as far as the eye could see. Thorn would often dip low to skim the waves with his wingtips, and freezing liquid would drench Murtagh in graceful arcs. Each splash chilled him to the bone, until he was sure even his soul was touched, for his mind’s eye was so clear he remembered the first time he’d opened his eyes and seen his mother’s face.

Eventually they’d doubled back to Eoam, and the pair had enjoyed sunbathing on a secluded shore. Murtagh had had a fleeting thought that he wouldn’t mind living here. He’d put a seashell to his ear and let the swishing of the water lull him into a calm. He’d pocketed the shell and attempted to harness its power on their flight back to the mainland, and that was how the brooch had come to be fitted with one of Glaedr’s scales.

The golden dragon’s body had been pillaged by Galbatorix’s soldiers after his death; they seemed to think his scales were composed of actual gold. Or so Murtagh had been told; he’d been too busy vomiting at the memory of Zar’roc slicing through Oromis like he was made of candlewax. _Why didn’t he show himself sooner? He could’ve saved us._

The secret of the shell’s storage of sound had little to do with depth, he’d found. Instead, the concavity of the object played a role, and the scale that once connected Glaedr’s chest to his shoulder was plenty concave indeed. He had sung it onto the metal backing, pushing aside the errant thought that using the elves’ methods for such deception was near sacrilegious. He snorted; as if using a dragon’s scale wasn’t. The innocuous piece was normally hidden perfectly in plain sight: on Murtagh’s cloak.

Sifting quickly through the suspended voices in the brooch, he paused at the talk of a migration. The three men hadn’t been very forthcoming; he’d nearly memorized their conversation, but it hadn’t amounted to anything useful. The golden handprint on the tavern table, their criticism of Lord Risthart’s rule of Tierm, and a meeting during the new moon were the only clues he had. His instincts told him people organizing and complaining about their leaders indicated something big.

No one cast him a strange look as he dropped a good five storeys to the cobblestone floor—a drop that would’ve killed any mortal man, mind you—confirming his suspicion that the roof walkways were used extensively by all people. He adjusted his cloak, making sure Zar’roc was well concealed and checked that the dirt he’d smeared over his gedwëy ignasia was still intact.

Since it was information he sought, the best place to go was the black market. Every city had one, and Murtagh knew even Nasuada’s firm hand wasn’t enough to prevent its flourishing under her rule. _Why stop them anyway?_ he thought to himself, _they’re unmatched._ He returned the appreciative glance a couple of well-dressed noblewomen gave him as they sauntered past before entering a side street which ran parallel to the populated path leading to the citadel. While the market was unlikely to be in its shadow, he’d be able to blend in as a tourist as he searched.

The courtyard surrounding the citadel thrummed with activity. Street vendors sold steaming potatoes, stacked in thin slices on long wooden skewers, and bowls of bread pudding which they kept cool in clay bowls under the canopies of their rickety carts. Visitors, parasols folded neatly by their sides, walked arm in arm around the square, browsing wares and snacks. Children scampered between legs, screaming and playing with wooden swords.

Murtagh smiled charmingly at a wrinkled woman selling love potions and other baubles. She was surrounded by fine young ladies and wagged a finger at him, “You don’t look like you need ‘em, son.” He laughed and the women laughed as well.

He felt a questioning thought drift to him from Thorn and sent back a shrug in response. A strange homesickness arose in him as he perused the goods and surreptitiously searched for clues; even as he had left his city behind, its rhythms and atmosphere called him back like a siren song.

A section of Risthart’s small castle was open to the public and upon closer inspection Murtagh saw a sign exclaiming it housed artifacts from the past. A man collecting fares stood outside the entrance. He observed that almost none of the tourists carried weapons, but spotted sheathed blades at the waists of various merchants. He’d altered his face with a simple spell, mainly rounding out his jaw and cheekbones a little since Thorn said he looked “too pointy” and dyed his hair a dirty blond. Despite his dark attire, he fit right in with the roaming tourists.

He scrounged some gold coins from his pocket and strolled up to the collector. The man barely spared him a glance, ushering him in and eagerly moving on to his next customer. Archways which had been expanded to accommodate even the largest of Kull tapered off nicely into a white stone ceiling, upon which the insignias of various noble families of Alagaësia’s races were imprinted.

“This magnificent piece was commissioned by Lord Risthart himself!” a cheery-looking tour guide explained to a group of attendees. Murtagh trailed along behind the group. It was admirable that Risthart seemed to be making amendments to ensure races other than humans felt comfortable in his city, but, if what the men in Ceunon had spoken of was true, he’d also garnered a fair share of enemies for those decisions.

The tourists oohed and aahed enthusiastically, pointing and nodding at different aspects of the well-decorated ceiling. Murtagh flicked his eyes around the room restlessly. Usually black markets weren’t this hard to find, especially if you were a man wearing a heavy cloak. Past unruliness aside, he didn’t want to have to extend his mind to gauge the intentions of those around him unless he absolutely had to.

Brilliant daggers, broadswords and other weapons were displayed in glass cases about the room. It reminded him of Galbatorix’s collection at the castle; there were at least two rooms he knew of full of rare and priceless arms from across the land, most studded with garishly large jewels. If Zar’roc’s red ruby didn’t serve as a useful storage unit, he probably would’ve done away with its flashiness.

“And of course, none of this would’ve been possible without the generosity of our sponsors!” the guide was finishing. Murtagh only tuned back in because the crowd rotated to face him. He tensed before realizing they were gazing past him at an engraving on the wall and dutifully turned on his heel so he wouldn’t stand out.

A golden handprint, so enormous it could only have been done by a dragon larger than Thorn—and Murtagh’s stomach clenched at the thought of Glaedr’s paw being used for something like this—stark against the white of the stone underneath it, covered nearly the entire wall. In the space where the thumb and foreclaw met, words so tiny his fellow tourists had to squint to see, were inscribed: _The Golden Hand – archivists of history, maintainers of the present._

He wondered if a door was hidden behind it, as was classic in castles. Following the lead of some adventurous elderly women, he inched closer. “Is it real gold?” one asked, her lined face reminding Murtagh of his childhood caretaker, Imogen. The guide nodded excitedly and began chirping about the complicated process of producing gold paint.

The handprint and wall were visibly seamless, but perhaps to reveal their secrets they needed a little persuasion. Murtagh vowed to return after sunset. He smirked; things were always clearer in the dark.

*******

_The Golden Hand_ , Thorn pondered, _a most peculiar choice of name._

_I agree._ Murtagh chomped on his lunch of bread and meat while Thorn, his kill scattered around him, downed rabbit, sparrow and other small rodents. Murtagh knew Thorn wasn’t pleased with the quality of food available in these parts because he’d barely chewed the animals, preferring to swallow them whole so he wouldn’t have to taste their “hardly mediocre meat,” as he called it.

_It is used in mocking, I wager_ , Thorn continued, _Argetlam, Silver Hand, Golden Hand…_

Murtagh cocked a brow. _Mocking the Riders? Who is left in Alagaësia_ _with the gall?_

_Never underestimate people’s stupidity_ , Thorn advised.

They sat in a nicely shaded meadow many leagues from Tierm. Murtagh had shared his observations of the city and his plan to return after nightfall. Dark clouds rumbled overhead and the cover they provided would aid his journey.

_It was strange that there was nothing obviously suspicious there_.

Thorn chuckled at his pouty tone. _You desired to be attacked, did you?_

_You know what I mean. Usually it is much easier to find those involved in illicit activities._

_This group is indeed secretive, but do you believe them capable of much harm?_

A frown marred Murtagh’s brow. It was not that he believed the Golden Hand could be more dangerous than Galbatorix had been, but in a different way. The way they had spoken about Lord Risthart and Nasuada…as if they could hold them to account, like they were gods. It disturbed him greatly.

_The truth of this will be more insidious, Thorn, I just know it._

*******

The night markets had closed by the time Murtagh slipped back into the city. In minutes, he had traversed the barely lit slums, slowing as he reached the citadel courtyard. The moon obscured behind thick cloud cover cast sickly gray light across the square. A few beggars slept on the stone steps. A woman, shivering in the cool night air, beckoned to him with a finger, the rouge on her cheeks looking like fresh bruises.

Lips pressed into a hard line, Murtagh entered the building, casting one final look around for any patrols. All was eerily silent. He made his way to the artifact room mostly by memory, as lanterns lit only the hallways. A sheet had been tossed over the engraving and he muttered “Brisingr”, setting a nearby lantern aflame, before reaching up and pulling it down.

The colossal golden handprint was disfigured by a dagger, which speared a thin piece of parchment to the wall. A red stone glinted on its pommel, not unlike the one on Zar’roc. The back of Murtagh’s neck prickled and for the first time in a long time, he felt uneasy. Resisting the urge to glance around furtively, he removed the note.

_Your father would be proud._

His heart began pounding in his chest. The note was just vaguely specific enough that he knew it was meant for him, though logically it could be for anyone. Everyone had a father, one way or another. But how did they know he was here?

He stared unseeingly at the piece of parchment. How would Eragon feel, if he had gotten this note? Murtagh did not think of his half-brother often; truth be told, he’d lived so long believing he was alone that he did not think he knew what it meant to share blood with another, but he imagined it would’ve brought tears to Eragon’s eyes. What must it be like, to have had a father who was a hero? 

Morzan’s face was mostly lost to him now, thankfully, but he remembered his voice and his anger. The crack of his belt, the drinking, the sound of Zar’roc slicing through his back, Murtagh’s screams lost even to his own ears. Once, Thorn had suggested that perhaps Morzan had not always been the man Murtagh knew, that perhaps Galbatorix had molded him into a tool he could use, the same way he’d done to the two of them. That explanation had not ignited any sympathy towards his father. After all, Galbatorix could only have been manipulating the evil that was already present within Morzan, and after his own brief stint with the king, Murtagh knew that at one time, he, too, might have done anything for power, for the opportunity to exact revenge on a world which he believed had taken everything from him. He had relished any chance for release. In that base, animal want, at least, he was his father’s son. 

Though there was not another living thing within the building, with the exception of millions of insects and hundreds of rats, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. If someone had seen him here during the day, they could also be monitoring whether he received their note from afar. That the Golden Hand could employ a magician for their errands, whether that person was sympathetic to their cause or not, meant that the threat they posed could now cross the border into Ilirea with ease.

When his reverse-tracking spell yielded a result, Murtagh cursed under his breath.  _Where are you?_ he asked Thorn, shoving the dagger into his boot.

Thorn sent him a topographical impression of his location above the city.  _Why have they made themselves known to us?_ he hissed.

_I don’t know, but they left traces for me to follow on purpose._

_Don’t even think about it._ Thorn’s growl  rippled across Murtagh’s mindscape; it was an indescribable feeling. 

_This is our chance, Thorn! We cannot present this to Lord Risthart or Nasuada without evidence._

_Evidence of what? Critiquing leadership and funding a_ _garish_ _painting is hardly grounds for suspicion. I don’t think this is worth investigating._

_No, but they seem to think I’ll be interested in what they are doing. And since they are most definitely operating off of the world’s impression of me, it_ _can only be something terrible._

_Don’t be dramatic. You’d show yourself for this? When the news spreads, don’t you know how that’ll appear?_

For a second, Murtagh imagined Nasuada’s face crumpling in disappointment. Then he shook his head.  _It doesn’t matter. If it will help us get to the truth of the matter, I’ll do it._

_We’re not exactly starting in a salvageable position._

_No, we’re starting in a position which will make my story more believable. Everyone expects me to follow in my father’s footsteps._ It was surprisingly hard to compose coherent thoughts while shimmying up a rusty drain pipe to the roof as he was right now. 

_And I suppose I’m expected to wait around like a common canine? At your beck and call?_

Murtagh winced, hoisting himself up over the edge. He straightened and inhaled the crisp twilight air.  _Of course not. You are free to leave me to unfathomable danger._ From this distance, Tierm’s ports looked small and inconsequential. 

Thorn’s silence was tinged with betrayal and trepidation. Finally, he said,  _Remember that you had a life before me, but for me, there is only you. No one else. Don’t insult me by acting as though gambling with your life is harmless._

Murtagh sighed.  _They will let me in, I know it. And I cannot gamble with my life anymore, knowing that is it tied to your own._ He tried to send soothing sentiments across their link.

_You will be in and out,_ Thorn  ordered ,  _And even if you find nothing, you must promise me we will fly straight to Ilirea._

The sun was creeping over the horizon now, and the noise of the city’s regular hustle and bustle became  audible .  The Golden Hand had left him an invitation. He understood he stood on a precipice, his decision fated to topple him to one side or another, but down regardless. 

_I promise._

** ***  **

The waves were the lowest they’d been in a while, and the young sailors sighed in collective relief. The captain, however, was concerned. “I smell a storm,” he told them, “Be on the lookout.”

At the eastern dock, six ships awaited departure, set to sail to Narda, Kuasta, Feinster and Eoam. The crew was loading them with food and goods for trade, their hands roughened by years of the same work. Some Urgals and members of the Wandering Tribes, new migrants looking for day labour, stood a ways away, waiting for a bark from a captain indicating they were short a couple hands. 

Folake tapped her foot impatiently against a pile of extra planks. A brief survey of her competition made it clear she was unlikely to get picked. Again. A small, frowning woman standing in the middle of a group of towering men and Urgals could hardly expect to be seen. 

At the last audience her people had received from Lord Risthart, the governor had informed them there was currently no space for their fleets on the docks and since they had no people with experience in Tierm’s shipping industry, he could not, in good faith, order that their ships be let in. Folake scoffed; she was no fool. It was obvious the merchants and sailors felt threatened, and they’d wasted no time in ensuring their precious profit margins stayed intact.

Jokoh, the chief of her tribe, had sent a messenger to the capital, beseeching the High Queen to overturn Lord Risthart’s sham ruling. He’d instructed his naval architects to integrate themselves into the industry in Tierm, hoping that soft power would allow them to open pathways to meaningful livelihoods, but so far, they’d had little success. 

For the past three weeks, every day at the crack of dawn, Folake dragged herself to the docks, praying to Gokukara for a chance to work on Tierm’s frankly inferior ships. Though all migrants were provided with a monthly sum of coins that paid for their food and shelter, she couldn’t shake the humiliation she felt at  having to line up and beg to be allowed to do what she knew how to do. Bored of out her mind, she’d compiled a list of all the mistakes she’d observed in her head, which was now nearing two hundred. 

_Two hundred and one..._ she corrected herself.

“No luck today?” The voice came from above, which was how most voices came when you were barely taller than a young child. Folake turned her head up and to her left to see a man with lanky hair the colour of overripe corn looking down at her intently. 

Her brow furrowed . He had the same pale colouring as most of the people in Tierm and so she was surprised to see him here instead of on the deck of a ship. “No luck any day,” she responded, “though I’m sure you’ll have an easy time of it.” The other members of her tribe and even some of the Urgals chuckled, eyeing the newcomer with a mixture of curiosity and resentment.

“But I have heard your naval architecture is far beyond the capabilities of those in this city,” the man said, as if surprised that sheer talent wasn’t enough to earn them power. 

She shrugged, deciding it would be too exhausting to explain the situation to this stranger, and shifted her attention back to the ships.

“Is it...because of the Golden Hand?” his voice dropped to a whisper.

An Urgal to her right shot him an incredulous look. “You really aren’t from here, friend, otherwise you’d know it’s common knowledge the governor eats out of their hands, so quit the whispering.” His guttural tone gave his words more bite than Folake knew he intended. 

The man didn’t seem offended, only nodding slowly, grey eyes flicking from the docks to the decks and sails of the ships set for departure. He seemed to be searching for someone. She observed the same scene, trying to see guess what he was looking for, but all she saw was sunburnt men scrubbing the decks and hanging off of the crow’s nest; the normal ruckus of a shipyard. 

A thought suddenly occurred to Folake. She stepped further away from him, subtly relaxing into a fighting stance. “Are you one of them?” she asked tightly. 

“No.” His reply was quick, absolute. “But...do you know where I could find them?”

She placed her hands on her hips, scrutinizing him. “So you’re looking to join them, then?”

“No,” he shook his head, “They...left me a calling card of sorts.” He bent down to pull something out of his boot.

Immediately an assortment of twenty weapons were pointed at his head, crouched as he still was. “Wait,” Folake commanded,  holding up a hand. She r eaching for the dagger in his outstretched hand, flipp ing it in her grip  to  examin e the craftsmanship and ruby-studded  pommel . “This jewel is the handiwork of the Wandering Tribes. This cut is virtually impossible to achieve without our gemcutters.” She glanced around at her companions for support.

In the midst of murmured agreement, a man whom she didn’t recognize spoke: “The lady is right. Many similar stones were commissioned for noblemen’s swords.”

“And these swords, they were commissioned from all across Alagaësia? Even Urû—Ilirea?” the man asked.

“Do you know any other place with more self-proclaimed noblemen?” Folake smirked. The men chuckled.

One side of his mouth turned up in wry amusement. “Very well,” he agreed, “then, do you know a man with red hair and a face like a steamed potato?”

Now it was Folake’s turn to guffaw. “I’m truly sorry that I don’t.”

“You mean Frederic?” a hulking Urgal, probably a Kull, answered this time. “He comes by sometimes, owns that ship.” He pointed at the vessel headed for Eoam. 

Folake gripped the Urgal’s forearm, which must have looked comical, for she had to reach high over her head. “By Gokukara, you know a man by that description and you never told me? And here I thought we were becoming friends!” The ir  spectators roared with laughter. 

“Who is Gokukara?” She must have looked taken aback, because the man hastily added, “I mean no offence. Many members of the Wandering Tribes swear oaths this way, so I wondered.”

It was the first time anyone had asked her a question regarding her religion.  She wondered how many of her tribespeople he’d come across. “ She is the praying mantis goddess,” Folake replied. The explanation seemed lacklustre, unable to encompass the true essence of the deity. But the man’s gaze was clear, thoughtful, even, as he held hers, and she inadvertently relaxed.

“Thank you for telling me,” he sounded sincere. He sought out the Urgal who’d spoken. “Where can I find this Frederic?”

“Blast if I know.” The Urgal scowled, “I spend my days lining up here to make some money for my family. You think I have time to watch the comings and goings of some merchant who is half the reason we’re in this situation in the first place?” 

“So he was one of those who lobbied Lord Risthart?”

“I thought you said you weren’t from here—” 

“You there!” a sailor yelled, pointing at the man, “You look like a strong feller! Come on up!” 

There were resounding groans all around. Folake sighed, closing her eyes for patience.  _ You knew this would happen. Look at him. He’s just like them. _

“I didn’t. I’m not. One more question.” He loomed over her, locks of hair shadowing his cheekbones. “Are you related to Nas-the High Queen, by any chance?”

She frowned. The familiarity in his tone  was restrained just enough that she knew it was forced.  “Listen, stranger,” she said  at last , “I  do not know what you are after, asking a question like that. Now, make yourself scarce, otherwise I’ll have to do some things I’ll regret.”

“Thank you for your help.” The man began to walk away, in the opposite direction from the docks, much to the chagrin of the sailor who had promised his captain an extra pair of hands. The men and Urgals shouted in jubilance. 

She watched him go. The ruby on the dagger’s  pommel continued to tickle her memory. She was sure she’d seen it somewhere before.

** *** **

The grass tickled his snout gently as Thorn rolled onto his opposite side. Evening naps, when the sun was just sinking below the horizon, were luxurious naps. A couple hours ago, he’d enjoyed flying through a small sunshower—a free wash, as far as he was concerned—marvelling at the patches of rain clouds scattered across the sky. Now, the damp smell of forest was sharp in his nostrils, the earth sighing in cool relief.

It had been four days and three nights since his weakly-resolved argument with Murtagh, during which they’d exchanged only completely essential conversation: mostly whereabouts and mission progress. It hardly qualified as being in and out, but Thorn found he was less worried about his Rider’s misadventures when he was cross with him and their mental shields were up. 

Yesterday, he’d attempted to touch the consciousnesses of a colony of rabbits he’d been contemplating making his meal. It had proven ridiculously difficult, so much so that he’d given up on eating them, disgusted at their inferiority. And also at his lack of skill. Their minds were alien, though fortunately devoid of energy-consuming thoughts concerning their role in the world, the fate of the land and the outcome of quarrels with the partners-of-their-heart-and-mind. In fact, it was this very use of his cognitive capacities that Thorn was convinced made him susceptible to constant indigestion. It didn’t help that twisted-broken-Shruikan had informed him that male dragons were more at risk for diseases of the gut. 

Murtagh had thrown his head back and laughed when Thorn had shared his health concerns, back in the early months of his life.  _I’ll simply heal you, you big, dumb beast._ For which Thorn had gulped down his favourite jerkin. And paid for it with a week of uncontrollable flatulence. 

He puffed, tendrils of smoke dissolving into nothingness above his head. Since his Rider insisted on abandoning him frequently, he had an abundance of free time to ponder what constituted a familiar and unfamiliar mind. The ingenious trick Murtagh had used to soothe Nasuada’s broken mind intrigued Thorn. He felt there were important discoveries to be made regarding the subject. So far, he’d worked out that it certainly involved the actual relationship between the two, and some combination of life experience, bloodline, and individual personality.  _The touch of a person’s mind cannot be mimicked,_ Murtagh had told him. But was that because no two minds could ever be enough alike, similar to snowflakes? Or was it because a magician, no matter how capable, could ever encapsulate the mental erosion and shaping of a being’s mindscape, seeing as it was constant and neverending?

Hence his experiment with the rabbits. He planned to continue his attempts for as long as it took them to recognize his mind—as that of friend or foe,  it did not matter.  _Dragons cannot use magic at will._ The black dragon’s words, coloured with anger and longing, echoed in his memory. Shruikan’s maw always glowed white-hot when he spoke of magic, flames licking around his sneer. It pained Thorn to remember. 

_I will definitely have indigestion tonight,_ he thought.

Fireflies hovered in the air above the grass, transposing themselves over the visible constellations in the darkening sky. It was a magnificent sight, heightened due to the red-tone bias of his sight. 

Once the full darkness of night had enveloped the world, Thorn unfolded his wings and lifted off. The tug of Murtagh’s mind on his own grew as he neared Tierm’s eastern port. He flew lazy circles over the six ships floating on the water, making sure to meld his shadow with theirs. After some time, he saw a small shape dart forth onto one of the piers. 

In a mental voice much softer than that which he usually used with him, Murtagh remarked:  _You glitter, Thorn._ He ran the short distance from the shore to the end of the pier, gaining speed with each step  only  to launch off the edge at the last moment. With inhuman grace, he flipped twice and braced for an uncomfortable landing; he’d worn his thickest breeches just in case. 

_This is all very flashy and unnecessary,_ Thorn said, angling his descent so his Rider wasn’t impaled on any of his many neck spikes. Murtagh’s praise had, for the moment, patched any discord between them.

He felt Murtagh’s hands scrabble for purchase, followed by the faint squeeze that indicated he was holding on with his thighs.  _Where is your saddle? I enchanted it so it would be easier for you to put it on yourself._

_Maybe you’ll take me more seriously if you have to pay with something precious to you._ Thorn flapped his wings furiously, maintaining their vertical altitude while he formed the fire deep in his belly. He had approved of this part of the plan, if only because it gave him the opportunity to declare his presence to a world in which  he worried  they had almost faded to  oblivion . 

_You better pray they want me more than they want to kill me for what we’re about to do._

A bright streak of flame erupted from between Thorn’s jaws, lighting up the shore like the first rays of a hellish dawn. Breathing fire for an extended period of time was exhausting, but the result was worth it. When he closed his mouth, towers of flame taller than he was long created an impenetrable barrier between land and water. 

_Time to go_ , Murtagh urged. The port quarters had burst into activity; the scrambling of sailors and civilians looking like disorganized ants from this height. Their shouts and yells were muted by chunks of wood crashing into the water and the crackle of secondary fires spreading steadily along the shoreline.

Thorn flew quickly through clouds of smoke they were counting on to aid their escape and hide their involvement. Though he’d covered his mouth with his shirtsleeves, Murtagh couldn’t stop the explosive coughing fit that overtook him when his lungs met the fumes. 

_You fool! Why didn’t you use magic to prevent that?_ Thorn steepened their ascent, wings straining. The air was thinner the higher they went, and the lack of wind tonight meant he couldn’t leverage the currents. The sparkle of his scales was dulled by a thick layer of soot which made him itch all over.

Recovering, Murtagh answered,  _I thought we’d escape the worst of it._ He surveyed the chaos at Tierm’s port.  _This is high enough._ Then he opened his palm and spoke words to extinguish the flames. Immediately, the blaze that had destroyed years of work, immaculately crafted goods from across the land and an unimaginable amount of merchant wealth went out. And all that remained of the six formerly majestic sea vessels were smoulders.

** *** **

Murtagh kicked the door shut behind him and observed his room. The ceiling was low and a single candle sputtered in the sill, rapidly losing against the draft coming in from the window. He groaned and fell straight onto the bed, his cloak  spilling around him. It smelled like unwashed sheets and was probably infested with bedbugs. With his coin, he probably could have afforded a better inn, but he’d chosen a mid-range one as they were vastly more abundant in the hopes that it would make it harder for anyone tracking him. 

It  was past midnight by the time he’d finished wiping down himself and Thorn. He’d touched up his cheap dye job and altered his face again, injecting a guileless plainness into his features to ensure he’d never be looked at twice. Thorn had dropped him off at the north gate, and he’d scaled the wall, right over the heads of sleeping sentries, running deep into the heart of the city. 

Grateful even for this grimy bed, he unstrapped Zar’roc, narrowly avoiding slicing himself and rolled over onto his back.  _Do you think we were seen?_

_No,_ Thorn’s voice was heavy with sleep.  _Though, if they inspect the ships, they’ll surely realize no human arsonist could’ve accomplished that._

Murtagh stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly running his fingers through his hair. He would have to cut it again, it was nearing his shoulders. _As long as the message gets across._

_Have you considered the possibility that they would fault the migrants for this?_

He had, though that had not changed his conclusion. Seeing the Wandering Tribe members and Urgals together had brought forth uncomfortable memories of the Burning Plains. He recalled the  knowing  pity in the tiny woman’s eyes when he’d asked if she was related to Nasuada. It was obvious that the welcome Risthart had given the migrants did not extend to ensuring they could live their lives respectfully and meaningfully. 

_Maybe now Risthart will have no choice but to let their ships in._

_And maybe it will put him in an even more impossible position with both the Golden Hand and the migrants._

Exasperated, he said,  _It was the only way! I searched for that idiot Frederic for days, if that’s even his real name! They know we know they’re watching us, and they’ve all gone underground. To force their hand, we had to strike at something_ _they’d miss_ _._

Thorn scoffed,  _I’m not sure they’ll think we’re sympathetic to their cause after this. And close that damn window, you’ll catch a cold._

_ We’ll see.  _ He turned his head to face the window and shut it with a flick of his wrist.  _ Th _ _ at Urgal _ _ said it was common knowledge that Risthart was in cahoots with the Golden Hand. That means they’re not trying to hide what they’re doing. Because they know they have free rein with no threat of retribution. _

Thorn made a noncommittal sound and changed the topic.  _ I was surprised to learn about the dagger. Do you still think it is the counterpart to Zar’roc? Could they be from the same set? _

_ Perhaps Rhunön collected gems from all over Alagaësia. Only the best for her work, after all.  _ Murtagh yanked  the weapon from his boot with a grunt.  The dim lighting in the room could not  entirely eliminate its lustre. He stretched over the edge of the bed, ignoring his protesting shoulder, to unsheathe his sword with one hand. Hoisting Zar’roc up so they were both above his head, he stared at the two blades.

They certainly twinkled with the same malice. Zar’roc had split open his back. It was the tool he and his father had both used to harm. Sometimes he thought the blood of all those who’d met their end at its tip had deepened its red stain. Did he really think that by wielding the weapon that had punished him, he’d conquered it?

He twisted its hilt so the light struck it differently.  It had  also  established him  as  the better swordsman against Eragon Shadeslayer. It had been central to his plan of freeing Nasuada. It had protected Thorn countless times. Perhaps another meaning could be derived from its two sides. He sighed; nothing could be done about its miserable name, though. 

H is eyes slid to the dagge r,  wish ing it had been delivered to him with a scabbard; an inscription of ownership or a maker’s mark would have been invaluable. But he supposed the biggest clue was its ruby-studded pommel and its obvious resemblance to Zar’roc. Both gems looked to be of the same cut,  at least to his untrained eye.  There was only one person whom Morzan would have  trusted with a weapon like this.

_Hmm, it is_ _possible,_ Thorn mused, _but how did the Golden Hand acquire it?_

_ I can’t imagine she gave  _ _ it _ _ up without a fight. Or maybe she did. She certainly gave me up without so much as a backwards glance. _ Mood permanently soured, Murtagh got up and blew out the candle with a huff. He leaned his forearms on the windowsill. Tonight was the new moon. Somewhere in Tierm, the Golden Hand was gathering. 

_ Someone in that organization knows something about your mother, Murtagh.  _

He thought about what he knew of her.  The three most formative years of his life and Murtagh had seen his mother only a handful of times.  Very few memories came to mind.  But what he wanted to forget more than anything were the general impressions of love; a warm hand caressing his face, placing a kiss on his brow,  the sound of smothered tears . 

He squeezed his eyes shut. In the fortnight before her death, he’d been at his father’s estate. She’d shown up in the middle of a  raging storm. He remembered the dark stains on her travelling cloak and Imogen hurrying him down the hall, away from his mother’s outstretched arms. “Darling,” she’d  called  out to him , “ Please.  Come here. Please.” More frightened at  the despair in her voice than anything, Murtagh had started to cry.  Selena’s face had fallen.

The healers had been in a frenzy,  whispering in urgent tones,  taking round-the-clock shifts .  Imogen never met his eyes when he asked if his mother would be okay.  Coaxed by his caretaker, o n one of her better days, he’d mustered up the courage to show her his swordplay.  Granted, it was a wooden sword Tornac was having him practice with, but he was understandably proud of his progress. 

She was bedridden, so he’d dictated his and his imaginary opponent’s battle. With each slash and parry, he watched her expression harden further. She certainly didn’t look impressed.

Murtagh couldn’t help thinking he looked nothing like her. He was intending to tell her Father had hurt him—accidentally, of course—but the words wouldn’t come. “Where did you go?” he asked her instead.  His upper lip trembled, “You missed my birthday.”

Selena made a choking sound and hugged him to her. He resisted the embrace; she smelled like sweat and illness . 

When he received the news of her death, he recalled confusion and eventual numbness.  Later, he realized his caretaker must have known his mother had just given birth, but none of the staff  at the castle during that time ever revealed that fact to Morzan.  Or to him.

He opened his eyes. His fists were clenched, white-knuckled.  H e’d never shared these memories with Eragon . It was both cruel and  a mercy .

Thorn’s snores drifted across their link. Murtagh flopped back onto the bed, casting a  mildly convincing spell on the door to deter attackers. His usual restless sleep was a  disturbing concoction of blood and Nasuada moaning in his ear.  When the doorknob finally twisted, he made sure to remain very still, breathing  deep and even .  He had undone all his wards for this.

Listening to their footsteps, Murtagh counted at least three men enter the room. When sturdy hands held him down, he thrashed around and made a show of reaching for his belt where Zar’roc was no longer strapped. The sickly sweet smell of poison invaded the room and a cloth was pressed roughly over his mouth and nose. His thoughts suddenly turned to Gokukara. He imagined Nasuada would be praying to her right now, as she often had in the Hall of the Soothsayer. He wondered if she still prayed now that she was queen.

_ I’ _ _ ll watch over you, little one.  _ Thorn’s promise was the last thing he heard before passing out.


End file.
